


Allt varð hljótt

by Thalamus



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Community: hannibalkink, Drama, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Sleepwalking, Stabbing, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalamus/pseuds/Thalamus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night a sleepwalking Will comes across the new serial killer in town, unaware of the danger he is in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allt varð hljótt

**Author's Note:**

> The characters belong to the show's creator Bryan Fuller. And Thomas Harris. I own nothing.  
> This is a fill for a prompt at Hannibalkink  
> ***********  
> You can listen to this track while reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3E2dflgzfA  
>  

 

 

He is looking under his bed, at Georgia. Cotard syndrom, a young woman disconnected from reality, fading slowly. Just like he is fading.

He blinks and the world shifts into the dark and all too familiar road.

He walks slowly, follows the white line in the middle of it.

The stag’s hooves echo close behind him.

Soon the police car will approach, not stopping but running him over.

Then he will wake up, drenched in sweat. Just like so many other nights.

He will take the dogs for a walk. Shake off the dream, the glare of car headlights. The feeling of his bones breaking through harsh impact.

“Am I alive?” Discolored eyes look back at him, her face so alien. A hand reaches toward him, it is covered in dead skin. Even her dermis is separating itself from life.

His mind screams to run, _don’t touch her_. He reaches out to her.

Dark lofty trees surround him.  A blurry shape moves in front of him, a dot of light bobbing up and down. 

Someone is muttering, speaking urgently. He can’t make out the words, they are not meant for him.

A twig snaps under his bare feet.

The dark blur turns, then stills. 

"You are not supposed to be here", the voice is calm, dripping with confidence. And it sounds...familiar.

Will lifts his hand, shields his eyes against the sudden harsh glare of light. Something warm drips on his cheek.

He blinks, looks up.

His skin feels flushed. He takes in the yellow hair, catching a brief glimpse of an unfamiliar face.

Next to it hangs another head. Female face, framed by long brown hair. It's adhered by blood.

Her expression is frozen in a silent cry as the head half-turns toward him before swaying the other way around.

Another one hangs beside it, joined by another one and another one.

Will loses count. There are so many of them. They adorn the trees like low hanging ripe fruits.

He stands there, face tilted up watching them all turn in the wind, dancing to a silent symphony.

He doesn’t recall this case.

Will falters, his insides compress in restiveness. He doesn’t want to be here anymore.

He feels himself sway in synch with the heads, the weight of their dead gaze is heavy on his face, on his shoulders.

Their blaming dead eyes are pinning him down, squeezing his chest painfully with every inhale.

Will is their captive. Their reluctant audience.

"Wake up", the words push past parched lips, they drown in the wail of wind.

A crunch of boots through the carpet of leaves, a sudden movement from the corner of his eye.

_Please let it be a dream._

The silent plea is followed by a sharp hot agony pushing between his ribs.

His breath catches as he twists, his hands find broad shoulders. And in his daze he hangs onto them.

Will gasps, lets the pain push him forcefully back inside his body.

Shaking, he looks down at hilt of the knife. It seems like an alien extension of his flesh.

The metal shifts inside of him and sudden pain surges up as he is gently lowered to the bed of leaves.

A whimper escapes him.

"Shhh", the bland voice soothes.

The world around him dims. And he realizes with sickening alarm that maybe, _maybe_ this isn’t a dream after all.

Will focusses on the man’s features, makes himself look him in the eyes.

And his mouth opens in a silent cry of disbelief, betrayal, just before pure darkness swallows him completely.

**Author's Note:**

> I titled this short fill after one of Ólafur Arnalds' songs. "Allt varð hljótt" is Icelandic and means "all became silent".


End file.
